Metal Gears
by Apocalyptic Alchemist
Summary: Drabbles. A Klokateer's life is brutal from the moment he takes the brand until the moment he perishes. But we all know that the Klok needs gears to keep ticking...
1. The Curse of the Gears

An icy wind tore at the eye holes in 2471's hood. Sweat froze to the skin of his bare arms as he strained to hear his signal over the hum of the engine and the blades. His stiff, frozen fingers were locked around the lever that controlled the Dethcopter's storage bay. Any moment now, he and his fellows Klokateers would deliver the greatest death metal band of all time to the ice below. This would be his last concert as a Level 23 special effects Klokateer. After this night he would be inducted fully into the Elite training program. The price was several years of vigorous training and study. It was a bittersweet moment for him. As a rough-neck teenager, this was all he ever dreamed for himself and he never anticipated the day when it wouldn't be enough.

"Now, now, go, go!" his commander yelled through his earpiece.

2471 yanked the lever, opening the bay door and sending the giant spiked box rolling into the frigid, thin air. It was over in seconds, his last time sending Dethklok out into stage in the most brutal way possible. It wasn't just the electrifying feeling being backstage at a concert that he would miss. It was the sense of purpose he obtained by delivering such an awe-inspiring, even religious, experience to the masses.

"Off target, but good enough!" His boss didn't sound pissed. No one had done their job incorrectly. And the pain waivers had been signed.

The bay door closed as the copter circled around, preparing to land in the designated safe zone where the team on the copter could monitor the concert carefully, if you could call a single song a concert. 2471 stripped off his leather gloves and tucked them in his back pocket. He rubbed his arms briskly to get the blood moving to the surface again and then rubbed at his eyes. The heavy thump of intense metal bass thrummed faintly from the ground below.

"Can we get some coffee down here?" one of the Klokateers on the floor asked, his voice crackling through the headset.

"10-4. Approximately 15 minutes until clean up." One of the kitchen crew would bring them a quick cuppa before they had to brave the cold again to collect the box.

Suddenly the copter lurched and rumbled, sending the Klokateers in the bay sliding across the metal floor. 2471's hip slammed painfully into the control panel and he flung out his arms, desperately grasping for something to anchor himself to, his fingers finally wedging tightly behind the panel. "FUCK!" The body of the helicopter groaned in protest, listing sideways through the air. He heard screaming.

"We're coming down hard!" crackled across his headset. "Hold on!"

That sickening sense of falling overcame him as he gritted his teeth. To die now, at this last show...

The impact jarred him loose and he rolled a couple of times across the panel, hitting the floor when the copter finally came to rest. Sirens blared and red lights flashed. Something smelled like it was burning. 2471 dragged himself to his feet and looked at the bay floor below. There were bodies, some moving and some still.

"Evacuate! That's an order!"

2471 yanked at the same lever he had just ten minutes before, sending the bay door grinding open in fitful spurts and began his climb down from the control room, joining the bruised and battered Klokateers who were moving towards the open door and the sharp northern air.


	2. Gearwater

It was a common misconception that Nathan Explosion was a fucking idiot. 836 didn't understand how this was possible as he was also commonly referenced as the greatest lyricist of his generation, but her lord's brevity when speaking to the public had given him such a reputation.

The reality was a little more complex.

Lord Explosion enjoyed books and was a frequent visitor to her corner of Mordhaus. She haunted the aisles of the cavernous and silent library with a squad of similarly trained academics known as the Keepers of Knowledge. Their job was to collect, organize, and synthesize all of the information that Dethklok could possibly need to make their record-breaking and infamous music. All topics of brutality, darkness, death, and anything possibly metal were covered by the millions of tomes stored here. As Dethklok's lyricist, Lord Explosion was no stranger to these aisles, generally wandering aimlessly, pulling out random books and flipping through their gruesome pages for inspiration. Occasionally the Keepers would receive a request from Lord Explosion or Lord Ofdensen for books to be sent up on a certain topic.

That is what 836 did now. A stack of books vaguely related to water and the ocean sat in front of her, pulled from the shelves by silent hooded Keepers. As one of the apprentices to the Master Keeper, a shaky old man who was rumored to be the oldest living Klokateer, number 1 himself, she spent hours helping him skim through books to determine the very best and most brutal to send to the Lords. To be frank, it fucking sucked.

She rubbed tiredly at her eyes and adjusted her ponytail underneath her hood. A measly two books sat on the delivery cart.

A petite female Klokateer strode over with another book.

"Noooo," 836 groaned. "Please, no."

"This," the Klokateer replied, a grin in her voice, a finger tapping the front of the book, "This is a good one. Promise."

836 frowned and held her hand out expectantly. If it was one more fucking book on vikings sailing here, vikings sailing there, vikings sailing everywhere, she was going to barf. Vikings had been done a _million times_ by a _million metal bands_. She just had a gut instinct that this is not what Lord Explosion wanted when he demanded books on the ocean. While vikings were totally metal, they were also totally overdone. Instead she envisioned an album touching upon the great, unknowable, terrifying depths of the ocean... dark, cold, and alien.

The Klokateer slapped the book in her hand and 836 examined the title. A book of fairytales. Hmmm.

"My English prof told me in college," the Klokateer explained, "when in doubt, go back to the fairy tales."

"Makes sense," 836 reluctantly agreed. "They're primal. They're the first repackaging of our shared, instinctive fears. The themes resonate so strongly that they have been retold for generations."

"Right?"

"Totally." 836 flipped through the gilded pages. Terrifying creatures with grimacing features stared back at her, cold and alien. Unknowable, like the odd creatures at the bottom of the ocean, outside of normal human experience. "I forgot just how brutal fairy tales were. Thanks."

"No prob. I'm going to skim the pirate section again, just in case 598374 forgot something."

"Alright," 836 replied dismissively, already absorbed by the unsettling illustrations. She turned to the table of contents and moved her finger down the list until... "Shit."

Fucking _mermaids._

The original fairy tales were horrifying, and no metal band in the world had tackled mermaids. If anyone could bring back their brutality, it was the greatest band in the world, Dethklok. 836 carefully slid a bookmark into the page and set it on the cart. She'd fill it out with a few pirate biographies, but she knew where the real gold was. It was her job, after all.


	3. BirthdayGears

It was sandwich night. How fucking depressing. 3555 slammed his tray down on the table, spun his chair around, and sat down heavily. "Good evenin' Cherry Pie," he drawled, and grabbed his cucumber sandwich.

836 rolled her eyes from behind the hood. "My hair isn't even red anymore. Don't call me that."

His companion didn't have to see his answering grin to know it was there. "Sorry, 836, didn't know you were on the rag when I came over."

A Klokateer numbered 40021 snorted from across the table. She crossed her arms over her chest. "Do you need to attend the next sexual harassment training, 3555?"

He held up his hands defensively. And promptly shoved his hood up over his mouth to take a heaping bite of his sandwich to shut himself up.

"It's not 'the rag' that's got me down," 836 replied morosely. "It's sandwich night."

It was the conundrum of the employee cafeteria. On days with huge events, all kitchen hands were tasked to preparing the food for the thousands of visitors that might visit Mordhaus. The thousands of Klokateers employed at the Haus still had to eat, though. The result was that breakfast was cereal and lunch and dinner were sandwiches. The kicker was that on days with huge events like today, Lord Murderface's birthday, the staff were overworked, stressed, and famished, and really just wanted a hot, filling meal.

"Turkey and cheese," 836 grunted. "I fucking hate turkey. But apparently they ran out of Serrano ham for the canapes and used the cafeteria's supply of sandwich ham."

"Why not try out the joys of vegetarianism?" 3555 asked, cheerfully, fisting another cucumber sandwich. The cafeteria was really hopping now, as people got off first shift and came looking for sustenance.

40021 snorted again. "What are we, rabbits? Vegetarianism is not brutal at all."

"They don't fill me up," 836 whined. "And _I _don't get double helpings because I'm fucking the kitchen manager."

3555 just smiled, his cheeks bulging as he chewed.

"Well, I've got to go. I'm on the sound crew for the birthday concert," 40021 said, as she stood up and stretched. "It's gonna be a long night."

"Cool, though," 836 said wistfully. "Getting to see the band all up close and personal. Getting to hear them play."

"Hey, I've been telling you to put in for the one of the 'upstairs' teams. They can't keep you stuck down in that musty hellhole forever. Catch you guys later." 40021 weaved her way through the bustling crowd, holding her tray high up above her head. 3555 watch her go appreciatively.

836 picked at her sandwich and considered.


	4. GearTroll

"Anything about Finland," the Gear sent straight from Lord Ofdensen's office had growled at 836. She had nodded briskly and gotten right to work, determined to make the Master Keeper proud. He was getting some follow-up surgery done after having fallen from one of the library balconies onto the spear of a statue on the ground floor. Miraculously, he had survived, adding to his legend. That meant that he had to pick an apprentice Keeper to run the library during his recovery. He had _not_ chosen 836. She was not the favorite, not by far. But she _was_ who the intimidating Gear had addressed after loudly barging into the library.

The Gears were the Klokateers' nickname for the high-ranking personal assistants to Lord Ofdensen and the band. Gears were also used as a nickname for the elite defense force that an acquaintance of hers, 2471, was training to be a part of. While all Klokateers had the gear brand seared into their flesh and all understood themselves to be an essential part of the great, clicking, Dethklok, the Gears were something different, something special. They were an archetype that all of them aspired to, the ultimate servant of the band.

Most of them were dicks.

"Hurry up," hissed the Gear.

She hummed in acknowledgment as she browsed the computer archive, jotting down promising topics. Lord Explosion enjoyed arcane knowledge. He enjoyed things steeped in myth and lore. And of course he liked brutality and violence. If she could find something at the intersection of all of these... ah hah. Finnish necromancy. A whole book of spells. Perfect. Just for shits and giggles, she had two of the junior Keepers pull out five books in total showing the breadth and depth of her extensive historical knowledge. She placed the necronomic spells on top, her gut telling her that it was a winner.

"There you go," she chirped at the Gear, with all the pleasantness she could muster.

He grunted at her, grabbed up the books, and strode out of the library, the clang of the heavy doors echoing behind him. Book dust swirled in his wake in the slanting shafts of sunlight, the type of old dust specifically from disintegrating ancient books. It was familiar and comfortable in its own way. If she didn't love libraries she wouldn't be sitting in the most expansive library in the known world, a modern-day Library of Alexandria, but...

But her work here was feeling more and more hollow. She knew that she and the other Keepers made a difference in the world. While there was no TV permitted in the Haus for Klokateers and it was sometimes ironically difficult to get information on the band, she had heard some of their research on the new Dethklok albums. She knew that their research could dramatically change the direction of a song or an entire album.

836 thought she might do well here in the library, climbing her way to Master Keeper after many quiet years of dedicated service. She was still young and had plenty of time to prove herself. She could spend her life in this silent, sacred place, keeping Dethklok's knowledge safe. And herself, too, as the library had the second lowest mortality rate of all jobs in the Dethklok empire.

40021 told her to put in for an upstairs job, which would mean starting all over again in a new field, one which may be shitty to the extreme, like cleaning microphones or being on Skank Patrol. Would moving out of this library, doing something with her hands, maybe having a few glances of the band itself... would it really fill that slowly growing emptiness inside of her?


	5. GearKomedy

"I cannot emphasize enough just how critical this trial is," Lord Ofdensen snapped at the trainees. All of their spines straightened a little in response to his tone. 2471's heart beat just a little bit faster, excited. "If a legal precedent like this is set... well, let's just say it, ah, won't be good for us or for the rest of the recording industry." Lord Ofdensen walked slowly back and forth in front of the line of Klokateers at parade rest in front of him. They were a hand-picked group being trained for the Elite Commando Squad. Many of them had been schooled in combat and strategy for years. This would be their first outing with the Elite Squad. "I have chosen this trial for your first observation because it is so low risk. Remember that you are a reflection of the Dethklok empire when you are in public. How you conduct yourself there, it, ah, well it correlates directly to the band. Do you all understand?"

"Yes, Lord Ofdensen, Sir!" the Klokateers all shouted.

"Well, good. Move out."

2471 spun on his heel sharply, in perfect time with the rest of the Klokateers. They marched out of the briefing room and into the suit-up room. He strapped his weapons on efficiently, feeling the comforting weight of the gun at the small of his back and the daggers at his legs. He tucked the little capsule of cyanide into the little metal bracket on his back molar, his hands shaking just a little bit. This was the price he was going to pay to become a Gear. Every decision in his life, every moment of pain, loneliness, hatred, determination, and victory... they all led to to this.

At 15 he had been the worst kind of hooligan: stealing cars, smoking weed, skipping school, and making his parents' lives a living hell. He didn't blame them for kicking him out when they did a year later. He only blamed himself for not using the moment when his sobbing mother closed the door in his face forever as a wake up call. No, instead he couch-surfed and developed a heroin habit. He dealt drugs and wasted his money on liquor, ink, and more drugs.

The recruiter had found him in a questionable bar in Indianapolis.

A built guy with silvery scar tissue racing up and down his arms slid onto the stool next to him and ordered them both a scotch.

"Thanks," 2471 had muttered, but at the time he had just been Jason. "I'm not gonna suck your cock, though."

That startled a laugh out of the man and he turned to flash Jason a grim smile. "I don't want you to suck my cock, kid. I just know a charity case when I see one."

"Wonderful," Jason had replied bitterly, but he drank the scotch and slammed the glass down nonetheless.

The man sipped his more slowly, his presence somehow jarring in the old wooden bar with it's boarded up windows allowing only weak rays of sickly light to penetrate the smoke-dense gloom. He had a military aura about him, something straight and unyielding in this slumped, underachieving little shit hole. "I'm looking for a guy," the man finally said.

His voice projecting his disinterest, Jason replied, "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. A guy named Jason Metz. You heard of him?"

"Maybe," Jason said smoothly. "Who's asking?"

The man grinned again, quick and sharp like a knife. "569287," he said, and turned his head so Jason could see the gear brand on the back of his neck.

"No shit. What the hell do you want with Jason fucking Metz?"

"I've been told that Jason is the man responsible for cleaning up that mess downtown last week. He sounds like an interesting man and I'd like to talk to him."

Jason was wily. He was fast and he could think on his feet. He could have excelled in many careers, if only he hadn't started his life so bitter and so misguided. But he excelled at selling drugs and weapons instead. Either way, he was no fool. There were only three reasons a Klokateer wanted to talk to you: you were a hot chick at a Dethklok concert and you got to go backstage, you pissed off Ofdensen or a member of the band and now you were going to die, or..."Talk?"

"Talk."

"I'm Jason," he said firmly. "And I'm the one that smoothed over that shit with Willie Lopez last week."

The Klokateer grinned again, a friendly sort in a scary metal way, and Jason could see where several teeth were knocked out and a faint ripple of scar tissue across his face. "Well, Jason, I'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."

Jason didn't mind. He didn't mind because he had nothing to lose. He answered all of the man's questions and accepted his proposition without thinking twice. At 18 when he had heard his first Dethklok song he had felt their message call to him. How many people fulfilled their dream of serving the gods of metal and being part of that great message?

Three weeks later, after extensive testing and retesting, as Jason stood, chest heaving, drenched in blood that was not his own, the hall echoing with the screams of battle, it all became clear to him. He wasn't here because he had nothing to lose. He was here because he had everything to gain. And he smiled.

The next night he received his brand and he never looked back.

Now as he prepared himself to give up his life to his Lords if need be, he reflected on that child long ago, that angry 15 year old who was rebelling against what he felt, deep in his gut, to be inherently wrong with himself: he wasn't normal. He wasn't meant to waste his time in school, to pander to his teachers or parents or boss or strangers on the street. He was meant for something else, and he never knew what it was until he stood in that great hall filled with the copper tang of blood and watched Lord Ofdensen eye them expressionlessly from the stage. That angry boy had received a message. It was a message just as loud and angry as he was and it directed that anger to a greater cause. Dethklok had saved his life, and 2471 was going to repay the favor.

"Let's do this," Lord Ofedensen called, and the Klokateers assembled themselves, ready to move out into the world and defend the message of metal.


End file.
